


the last farewell

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Series: Southampton AU [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Before Battle, Dúnedain - Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, In-Laws, Stewardist Lothíriel, Uncle-Niece Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 21:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Denethor orders all women and children evacuated from Minas Tirith. One of them is his niece, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.





	the last farewell

Lothíriel was not her aunt Finduilas, much as she resembled her. She loved Minas Tirith. But she had no desire to remain in a city under siege, so while Ivriniel raged at the Steward, Lothíriel looked out at the fair untroubled fields of the Pelennor, still bemused that war had come so near. If not for the blazing beacons, she would scarcely have believed it.

She herself had already agreed. Not that her agreement was necessary; the Lord of the City bowed to no other wills, certainly not that of his twenty-year-old niece, but one must say something. So when he first told her and Ivriniel that they would leave the city with the other women and children, and the elderly, for those too would have need of healers, she said  _yes, lord._ In any case, she was not her aunt Ivriniel, either. Tales of battle seemed bad enough without witnessing the real thing.

Yet afterwards, as she looked over the walls and turned the matter over in her mind, she found that she disliked the idea that  _yes lord_ might be the last words he heard from her. Hewould not leave the City; if Minas Tirith burned, the Steward would burn with it.

Lothíriel shivered. But he was not only the Steward; he was her uncle, and a kindly one, in his way. She waited until he had sent a group of soldiers clanking out of the hall, then politely asked to see him. 

She walked down the hall, Denethor still and solitary on his throne.  _Chair_ , Amrothos would hiss in her ear, voice edged with alarm, but her uncle was as good as a king, and so his chair as good as a throne. He held his scepter ( _rod, Lothíriel, for Elbereth’s sake!_ ) in his hands, but gazed not at it or at the maps scattered over a nearby table, but the severed horn in his lap.

 _Boromir._ A sob caught in her throat, but she held it there. Not now, not today. 

“Before I leave,” Lothíriel said, stopping a few feet away, “I wished to ask if there is anything else I might do, here in the City, or while I am in Lossarnach. I am not afraid.”

Denethor lifted his head, dark eyes penetrating but not scornful or cold, as she had often seen them. A very faint smile touched his lips. 

“That I know,” he said. “You are a true daughter of Gondor, Lothíriel, and in your fashion you have served the City faithfully. There is nothing else I would wish of you, unless that you were in Dol Amroth, safe for a time.”

“You believe Minas Tirith is lost?” She clasped her shivering hands in front of her.

“I believe nothing,” said Denethor, “for battle is not yet upon us. We may see the utter defeat of the Dúnedain, the final death of Númenor. We may prevail. Whole armies can break themselves to pieces on the walls of Minas Tirith and our soldiers are hardy and valiant. Soon reinforcements will arrive. We shall see.”

“My father is coming,” she said, though she felt no doubt that he already knew. “He is coming with a company of knights.” She wet her lips. “If the worst should happen, what do we do? Aunt Ivriniel and I, and the soldiers guarding us?”

“There is a passage leading deep into the mountains, with food and water stored. Captain Gelmir knows the way. You may be able to survive long enough for the Rohirrim to come. If not, you still know the land better than any orc or Southron.”

Lothíriel swallowed. Then she bowed. “Thank you for telling me. No matter what happens, I will help our people fight on, I swear it.”

Denethor rose to his feet, his heavy robes making a suspiciously metallic sound. “I would expect no less,” he said from his great height.

Smiling, Lothíriel took it as the compliment it was. Yet she felt like crying as well. It was all she could do to keep her face stern. 

“My cousin Faramir,” she said tentatively, “he will return soon? Is he well?”

Her uncle, of course, saw straight through her, just as his younger son so often did. He gave a short laugh.

“Your cousin has the Nameless One’s own luck. Do not concern yourself over him; no doubt he will outlive you all.”

Lothíriel bit her lip.

“Whatever the chances of war,” said Denethor, still stern, “you will face grievous change from all you have known soon enough. You need not borrow grief. Go and prepare for your journey, and enjoy the light and clear air as long as they last.”

Lothíriel nodded, but only covered her mouth with a trembling hand. She did not feel at all the tall, strong daughter of the Dúnedain she knew herself to be. Despite herself, tears sprang to her eyes. Feeling very daring, she darted forward and embraced him as she used to as a child, ignoring the unforgiving mail beneath his robes. Before he could respond in any way—afterwards she wondered what he  _would_ have done—she all but ran down the hall, then halted, glancing over her shoulder. The flicker of astonishment had already left his face.

“May the sun shine on you, uncle,” she said.

Denethor permitted himself another brief smile.

“And you, child.”


End file.
